Esme at two months old

Dear Esme,

I woke up early this morning with a PING! in the middle of my brain, the way I wake up when you're about to wake up to be fed.

You were sound asleep. You weren't twitching or snuffling or showing any signs of waking at all. Oh! I thought. And I fell asleep again.

I woke up a few hours later and looked at the clock in amazement. You were still asleep. It was your first ever uninterrupted eight-hour all-night sleep, an event so momentous it merits annoying blinky text on the Internet. Have we told you lately that we love you? I got out of bed with eyes full of wonder and boobs like netballs. I'm sure it's just a freak one-off, and it wouldn't surprise me if you partied all night tonight, but it shows there's light at the end of the tunnel.

This has been a month of smiles. During your first few weeks in the world, I kept saying to people it was difficult sharing my life with someone who never smiles at all. Even the cats smile in this house: it's a house with a sense of humour where we seldom have a serious conversation or even argue sensibly, and you came into it with this grave Colonel Kurtz face and worried me that you might never lighten up.


I was so eager for you to smile that I broke my rule about not reading baby development books, and I opened one to see how long I had to wait. You were exactly five weeks old. I read that at five weeks, the first gummy smiles ought to begin. Lots of eye contact! said the book. The baby's pupils will dilate in joy! and love! as she gazes at you and smiles!

You weren't even making eye contact at that point. I'd put you in front of me and you'd do what I used to do to my German teacher: you'd look at my left ear. Or over my shoulder. Or at the ceiling. Or a wall. I haven't got time to bond with you, mother: I am scrutinising shelves.

So I did the next stupid thing, which is type in babies avoiding eye contact to Google, and then Ian found me crying while I was feeding you and said what's the matter? and I said Boo hoo hoo she won't look at me because she's autistic. And Ian said No she isn't and I said Yes yes she is. You program computers and I keep my possessions in alphabetised drawers like B for Blu Tack. She was bound to be autistic from the start boo hoo. It says so on the Internet it must be true snivel sniff.

Then we went to sleep, and woke up the next day, and that day, the eye contact began. Oh hel-lo! There you are! And then hot on the heels of the eye contact, the smiles. HUGE smiles that make you wrinkle your nose so you can fit them on your face. Smiles that appear whenever I rub your nose; when you wake up and see me in the morning; when you sit on my lap to be fed; when I talk to you. I left you with Ian for a morning this month because I was watching your grandfather get an OBE: it was a seriously glitzy to-do, but your smile was all I saw in my head and I couldn't get back home to it fast enough. When my £black cab got stuck in traffic, I shoved some fivers at the driver and sprinted for the nearest Tube station with my posh shoes in one hand and big silly hat in the other. There is an invisible piece of elastic between us and the longer I stay away from you, the more strongly it pulls me back again.



Then after the smiles came the gurgles: you do a lot of talking, and your voice is the soundtrack to our life. When I read you stories, you join in in your own words. When I put you on the changing mat, you turn to the CD player beside you and tell it jokes in your own special language.

I've heard you laugh properly - not a giggle or a chuckle, but a real laugh - three times, and each time, you've been sound asleep. I love that. I laugh in my sleep too.

The other thing I love: when you're feeding, you stop halfway through and look sideways, in the manner of someone remembering that they left the gas on or that they were supposed to be somewhere else ten minutes ago.

And Esme! You're huge! Two feet tall and a stone in weight already. Your clothes say 3-6 months: your socks say 0-12 months and they don't fit your feet any more. If I'm going to keep carrying you, either you slow down or I need to start growing at the same rate as you. Or you'll be carrying me next Christmas, and actually that would be fine.


The other significant thing you did this month was win over your grandfather, who detests small babies unless they're grilled in a bun. You didn't cry once and he was ever so impressed. Keep it up, because he's richer than we are.



You can take as long as you like to learn to crawl, walk, read and all that stuff. What I want most for you in life is that you have a good sense of humour, and are happy. I want you to be able to laugh at life and at yourself, even when times are hard. But right now, times are pretty good. Thank you so much.